


Warm Turkey

by BananaNeko



Category: Vocaloid
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, F/M, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Romance, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 18:11:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13552818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaNeko/pseuds/BananaNeko
Summary: The random PoV of an eviscerated girl about a self-proclaimed "artist". She lies in his kitchen cellar - longing for those certain days when he visits to cut out another piece of her liver, pancreas... heart.(It's a bit squicky - you've been warned!)





	Warm Turkey

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and so sorry to anyone who’s waiting for updates for my other fics, my motivation has been a little down recently even though I don’t intend to quit writing fanfics!
> 
> Thanks for opening this, and really hope you enjoy it~

He was an artist – or something of the sort, he’d once said.

She knew where she was; his kitchen cellar. He said so.

She was here because he’d tied her to this table, where he wanted her to be, where he’d cut out her heart. He’d scooped it out of her chest, and said he’d keep it, so she’d never have to love anyone else and have it broken again. So she’d be happy. The phantom of it still pumped in her ribs, but the important part of it was gone, disappeared between his molars. She might have had a life before him – something weak and dry and thin – but it wasn’t worth recalling.

There was no light in his kitchen cellar.

Just his lovely voice, and his outline glowing in the light from the doorway, his face blotted out with shadow as he took out the contents of her body one by one. He cleaned them in a glass bowl beside her head, running the supple, wet length of her twenty feet in his hand with the caress of a lover. Her blood spread out in a fantastical crimson rose around her split belly, holding her wet, glistening organs among its fluid petals.

Her skin was like snow, he would say as he worked. The beautiful fresh snow in the coldest day of winter, when they stayed indoors together huddled beside the warm, sleepy fire, and she was wrapped in his arms and they were just content.

Her red roses floated in the glass bowl as he twirled his finger in the deep red water, swimming lazily like dying tropical fish, bloated and pink with the tiny blood vessels spread out in surreal resemblance to furry pondweed. Bobbing up and down, comically limp. When he finally closed her seam she sunk in like an unstuffed toy, a great ragged rift lying like a long red sea-worm down the middle of her belly.

He comforted her with a smile. _Beautiful_. Then he left with his glass jar preciously held in his hands, her warm contents still twitching inside.

She descended into a deep, deep sea of pain as the anaesthetics slowly wore out, holding on to the strand of knowledge that, somewhere, he loved her. That she occupied a corner of his heart even where it was in the world up there, on the daylit earth he walked over with every right to. She had a dream of him lying beneath the spreading espalier branches in his garden, a faint smile on his warm lips, the green grass caressing his hair, the endless sky in his blue, blue eyes.

Down here slept silence.

Just the noiseless _drip, drip_ of the IV, and the rasping in and out of stale air from her lungs. The sick smell of disinfectant and blood. The red water oozed out of her stitches slowly, trailing down the side of her body leaking onto the table dripping down onto the floor.

She and the silence, settled like black ink in the bottom of a still tank.

* * *

 

She understood by now, what it was to live without a heart in her chest: that whatever he called beautiful, whatever smelled sweet to his senses and delighted his eyes, was the most beautiful thing on earth. That she was that thing, for the moment.

Yet the more lavish the petals and the more vibrant the shade; the more delicate the petticoats of lace; flowers were fated to wither all the sooner.

* * *

 

A day or three later, he came down to see her again. Fine, brittle air spiralled into the pitch-black cellar with him, and with a pang of sensation, the dead something in her ribs began to pound for the first time in days. Her eyeballs rolled beneath their thin lids in greeting, and her cold grey lips broke into a special smile filled with affection only he could see – saved only for him. Him alone. It was always a great joy to see him.

He bent down to take a long, well-deserved drink from her, quenching his thirst from the hot day.

He kissed her first, then tenderly snipped open the stitches in her belly to eat. Love slopped and dripped from the rim of her cut flesh, staining his clawed fingers. The terrible noises made by the meat fork in his hand rose and fell in wet harmony with the odd cries from her throat, echoing through the cellar, making the whole affair seem almost cruel – but it couldn’t be helped. She cared too much about him; couldn’t bear to see him in discomfort in hunger in pain.

 _Splat, splat_ from the meat fork onto his plate – _I love you, I love you_ , dumbly repeating her unvocal words.

This time he sat down to dine with her, talking to her prostrate carcass as he carefully dabbed at his mouth with the tips of his long fingers. Lost somewhere in her dream she was sitting with him in the darkness across a silk tablecloth, in a pool of light cast under a plain candelabra. Two glasses of red wine between them. She apologised for everything she couldn’t do with him in her past life. She talked and he laughed and later they danced.

Her glassy eyes stared out into the distance, glistening surfaces dimly reflecting the ceiling of the cellar. They gradually dried and turned to a crusted yellow.

Wandering deeper, deeper into the starlit forest of dreams.

They glided along to the slow waltz, her cheek rested on his shoulder, her eyes closed, his bitter-sweet scent filling her lungs. They danced all through the night – the never-ending night. Her arms were wrapped around his shoulders and his wrapped around her waist. She drowsily leaned into his chest as he danced her around and around the formless black abyss, endless and romantic. She was happy. She was content.

Somewhere in the distance, the reek of blood prickled her nostrils. Somewhere across the universe, she was in agony. But she paid no attention to it; there was no point in it.

He looked sidelong at her connected to the tubes, with a soft smile, and said she was beautiful; they kissed again through blood bubbling up her throat from inside her mutilated body; and it no longer mattered if it hurt.

No… she was still breathing, just faintly. Perhaps she would last another night.

She was his beautiful work of art. A short-lived plant fated to catch his eye, to be cut and bloom out of season in a vase, to sate his strange needs for pleasure. Someday the pain would end, and his visits would end, but she’d stay by him here in the kitchen cellar always.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The girl in here _was_ a Vocaloid character, but I saw no reason to upset any fans so I haven’t added any names in the Characters list; I’ll leave that to my readers’ imagination.
> 
> This is actually a rewritten version of a chapter I intended to publish – which turned into a weird one-shot. Therefore do note that there may be some lines that will coincide with the story it was meant to be in (once I put it up), and obviously there’re a lot of similar ideas in here.
> 
> It’s a half-delirious product of pure sleep deprivation some long time ago.


End file.
